


October Twenty-Second

by MariaPriest



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Starsky has a date with a mystery lady on October 22 of every year. Hutch wants to find out more.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson & David Starsky
Kudos: 4





	October Twenty-Second

_< 1976 - after “Gillian” >_

Hutch struggled to open his eyes, the smell of coffee having roused him from his first deep sleep in days. The rest had made only a slight dent in his physical and emotional grief over the loss of Gillian. He was grateful that Dobey had been very understanding and given him and his partner a few days off.

And Starsky had been there for him every step of the way, holding him (“Hey, ya big lug, gotta shift; my arm is dozing and it’s gonna start snorin’ any minute”), coaxing him to drink and eat (“This seaweed stuff is, uh, yummy; must be good if _I’m_ eatin’ it. See?”), making him shower (“If you get any riper, buddy, I’ll have to dump you in the trash”), and arranging for Gillian’s body to be shipped to her mother in New Mexico. He’d even shared Hutch’s bed the first two nights; his presence there was the only thing that had stilled Hutch’s tremors and tears enough so he could sleep for a few hours.

“Starsky?” he called out in a voice that crackled with sleep. When he realized his call was too quiet for anyone who wasn’t in the bedroom to hear, he cleared his throat and tried again.

When there was no answer, he panicked. _Where the hell are you, Starsk?_ Then he realized how childish he was acting. A few deep breaths and a long utterance of _Om_ settled him down. With the speed of a slug, he eased himself out of bed and shambled to the kitchen.

On the counter next to the coffee pot was an empty mug and beneath that, a slip of paper. Hutch pulled the paper out. He blinked a few times to clear his blurry vision then read: _Got somewhere I gotta be. Back around 10. Eat something. S_

Hutch checked the clock. “It’s 7 in the morning, Starsk. Where do you hafta be at this hour, huh?”

When Starsky returned, bearing bagels and cream cheese and wearing a sports coat, tie, and slacks, Hutch asked him about his morning. All Starsky said was, “Had a date with a special lady.”

Hutch never got any more out of him.

_< 1977 - before “The Crying Child” >_

Starsky breezed into the squad room just before 10 a.m. “Hey, Hutch, where is everybody?”

Keeping his eyes on the file he was reading, Hutch snarled, “Out on patrol, like _we_ should be.” He looked up to see his partner standing at his desk, peering at him with a guileless expression. His own eyes practically bugged out on seeing Starsky dressed in his typical going-to-court outfit, only weirder given the barber pole tie he was wearing. “Where were you, partner? Forget to tell me you’d be late?”

Starsky hunched one shoulder and said, “Dobey knew all about it, so no need to play hall monitor. Unless you wanna send me to the pretty principal’s office for a spanking.” He waggled his eyebrows and smirked.

Hutch rolled his eyes in an effort not to reveal his amusement at Starsky’s clowning. “Fine, so Dobey knew. You ever think _I_ might need to know? And why are you in your Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes? We’re scheduled for patrol today.”

“Had somewhere to be. Private, ya know. No offense, Hutch. But if you must know…”

“I must, I must.”

“Had a date with a special lady. I’ll go change and then we can hit the streets. My car.”

Hutch was glaring at the retreating figure when that figure suddenly stopped and turned around.

“Ya know, Lisa’s birthday is comin’ up and I know this great toy store I used to go to. Uncle Elmo’s. Thought we’d go there on a break. This place had _everything_ a kid could want. He should have something she’ll like. Maybe I’ll get her a yo-yo. I got my first one there. Uncle Elmo even taught me a coupla tricks. Oh, I wonder if he’s got those new quick-shifter toy cars. I saw an ad for ‘em a couple days ago.”

Hutch didn’t know whether to smile at or scold his excited friend for doing his own quick-shifting with his mouth, which happened every time he talked about toys and cars. Especially cars, toy- or full-size. When Starsky paused to take a breath, Hutch jumped in with, “Slow down or you’re gonna blow a gasket, you big yo-yo. Now go change.”

Starsky stood at full attention and gave Hutch a snappy left-handed salute. “ _Oui, mon partenaire autoritaire_.” He clicked his heels then performed an exaggerated about-face and wedding-marched out of the squad room, bizarrely muttering “Hut” with each step.

Hutch chuckled at Starsky’s actions. _The man sure knows how to put me in my place. And taking French lessons from Minnie again._

Reluctantly, he returned to reviewing the Goldfarb homicide case file. He had to be virtually perfect in his testimony in court in a few days because the defense attorney thrived on chewing up and spitting out detectives.

Yet he couldn’t concentrate. Where had Starsky gone? Who was this “special lady”? Why wouldn’t he tell him anything about her? And to make things worse, there was this elusive memory that this mysterious behavior had happened before.

In a snit, he pushed his chair back with more force than he intended, toppling it. He was righting it when Dobey charged in, definitely in dragon mode. The meeting with the desk sergeant must not have been the most amicable.

“What the hell are _you_ still doing here?” the captain barked. “Starsky not show up yet?”

Hutch felt his face heat up, resentful that he was taking the brunt of Dobey’s wrath that should’ve been aimed at Starsky, said calmly, “He’s changing. We’ll be gone shortly.”

Dobey harrumphed. “See that you are.” He yanked open the door to his office, shot Hutch a side-long glance, and entered his office, shutting the door with a slam that nearly rattled Hutch’s teeth as well as the door itself.

_Oh, Starsky, you are **definitely** gonna tell me what you did this morning._

All Hutch got out of him for the next three hours was how stupendous Uncle Elmo’s Toy Store was.

But he got his revenge: a nearly-naked Starsky at a public laundromat.

_< 1978 - after “Moonshine” >_

“Where the hell have you been, Starsky?” Hutch was peeved at his limping partner, uncharacteristically dressed in a navy blazer, red henley shirt, and gray slacks, and let it show. “You _did_ remember I was bringing you some groceries, or did that slip your mind, too, like needing to keep your partner informed when you aren’t gonna be where and when you said you’d be.” He asked the question with a mix of concern and vexation. “And when were you cleared to drive?”

“Who made you Dobey, Jr., huh? Am I under house arrest?” Starsky eased himself onto the sofa next to Hutch and propped his injured leg on the coffee table. He patted Hutch’s thigh a few times. “The doc said I could drive as soon as I was off codeine, which I am. And I worked the pedals just fine. Thanks for the eats, by the way.”

Hutch’s patience with Starsky was wearing thin. His tone became more testy. “So where were you? I think you _owe_ me _that_ at least. I’ve been sitting in _your_ apartment for almost an hour.”

Starsky was silent for a few seconds. Hutch knew Starsky was working up an evasive answer that would tell him nothing.

“I, uh, wasn’t home. Really sorry I forgot to tell ya, ‘kay? Had a date with a special lady. Wanted to keep it... private.” He stood, almost toppling, but he regained his balance quickly. “Now, if the Spanish Imposition is over, I’m gonna get into something more comfortable.” He shuffled to the privacy of his bedroom.

“That’s ‘inquisition,’ ya big dummy!” said Hutch to the departing man.

Starsky waved and chuckled before replying with, “What, you don’t think torture was an imposition?”

Hutch sighed, giving Starsky this round of words. But he was still irked at Starsky’s continuing secrecy.

_You’re a damn detective, Hutchinson, now detect!_

Suddenly, the proverbial light bulb glowed like a brilliant sunrise. He’d finally identified the pattern.

Starsky met someone--”a special lady”--every year, beginning, if memory served, in ‘76. On this exact date every year, he was almost positive. The date probably meant something to him, but what was it?

But maybe the date was significant to the lady and not Starsky, or to the both of them. It couldn’t be Helen because she had died in November of ‘75. It wasn’t Terry, either; she had died in ‘77. Besides, they always went together on Terry’s birthday to visit her grave.

So the special lady in Starsky’s life was still living. That brought him back to thinking about the date. There might be clues in his personal log books. He vowed to go to storage, pull the fire box that held the books from ‘75, and search for something that might hold the answer. That is, whenever he could grab a few hours to hunt for clues.

And it went without saying that he’d ask Minnie to comb through the department’s records. Since it involved Starsky, she’d ignore the rule about using those records for personal use.

But one thing after another over the next few days and weeks and months stalled his and Minnie’s research until it fell off their to-do lists and out of their memories.

_< 1979 - post-series >_

Starsky was up early, despite Hutch’s warning that he needed more sleep after pushing himself so hard in the previous afternoon’s physical therapy session.

“I’m fine, babe. Got somewhere I gotta be. Won’t be long. Dobey knows I’ll be late for work.” Starsky smiled, obviously still delighted he _had_ work, even though it was reviewing cold cases twenty hours a week.

“And you were gonna let _me_ know _when_ , _partner_?”

Starsky opened his mouth to reply but Hutch cut him off with a frustrated shake of his finger. “I know, I know. You have a date with a special lady.”

Starsky’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Hey, how’dja know?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “I’m a detective, idiot, with a memory and the uncanny ability to put clues together so they make sense. Maybe my memory’s not the steel trap yours is, but it’s pretty damn good. Now, ‘fess up.”

Starsky kept quiet as he slipped into a snug silk T-shirt--the only fabric he could tolerate next to his marred skin--then shrugged into a bulletproof vest. Next, he pulled on a pale blue shirt. With painstaking slowness, he buttoned the shirt then tucked both into his navy-blue trousers. As he snatched the striped tie off its hanger, he said, “Hutch, it’s private. And personal. Somethin’ I gotta--nope, _wanna_ do.”

“But I’m your best friend, your _partner_. We don’t keep secrets from each other.” Hutch paused, remembering that over the years they _had_ kept a few secrets from each other. “Or, we’re not supposed to.”

Starsky’s mouth quirked up on one side. “I can tell ya this, buddy. I’m doin’ this because of what you did for me.”

Hutch gave him a questioning look.

“You were there for me, babe. Gave me the strength I needed to get through a really tough time a few years back. LIke Terry and this Gunther thing and the stroke. And lots of other times.”

The stroke, which affected his right side but not his language abilities, had set back Starsky’s return to full-time work. His rapid recovery from that was turning out to be as miraculous as it had been from the assassin’s bullets. Hutch only had to help him with a few minor things, so they were optimistic Starsky would be approved to work their beat again.

“So how are you getting to your ‘date’ and then to work? You’re not cleared to drive yet. _And_ you’re supposed to have an officer for protection when I’m not available.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “I know that. Dobey approved this little independent excursion of mine.”

“Well, I don’t like it, not one bit. We’re both still targets, Gordo!” Any time he’d been out of the safe house since both discharges from inpatient rehab, Starsky had been accompanied by Hutch or another cop. Hutch had had an escort until Starsky could handle a weapon and move fast enough; he still had a fellow officer with him when he wasn’t with Starsky.

“And we probably will be forever. Ain’t gonna stop me from livin’. Neither will any of this crap that’s happened to me.” Starsky glowered his defiance.

Hutch drew a deep breath and huffed it back out in defeat. “Okay, okay. It’s just that… you’re not quite up to par. And you still haven’t answered my question about your transportation.”

“Ever hear of a cab, ya moron? Now willya help me with this tie? Weird I can do buttons but not a tie. _Not_ a tie. Get it?” Starsky chortled.

Hutch raised his eyes to the ceiling with a pained, dramatic flair. “Of course I got it, jackass,” he said lightly. He stood behind Starsky and deftly tied a half-Windsor knot. He patted Starsky on his left shoulder and said, “There ya go, lover boy. All ready for your mystery date.”

Starsky fiddled with his tie before nodding. “Thanks, babe.”

“Ready for your gun?” He had been ecstatic when Starsky had requalified to carry his weapon and his badge for his return to part-time work; it reinforced their hope that Zebra Three would be kicking butt and taking names again soon. But he was still uncomfortable with Starsky going out alone today, even though Dobey had approved it--allegedly. And his mystery date, whoever she was, just made him worry more. He shook his head, as if that could rid him of that worry. _Let it go, Hutch. He’ll be fine._

“Yup, strap on my heater. Gat. Roscoe.”

“Reading all those old _noir_ detective novels is stunting your vocabulary,” Hutch said as he wrapped the cross-draw holster belt around Starsky’s waist.

“It’s _building_ my vocabulary, dummy.”

Task finished, Hutch handed Starsky his Smith & Wesson. “I checked it already. One in the chamber, full clip.”

Starsky smiled his thanks and slid it into the holster. “Ya know, I really like this rig. Kinda like a cowboy. Lot more comfortable now than a shoulder harness.”

Hutch barely concealed a shiver at the reminder of the reason for the switch. “Here you go, Hopalong,” he said as he gave Starsky his tan sports coat.

“I’m more Gene Autry.” Starsky put the coat on with ease and grinned while he adjusted it on his shoulders. Next, he slid his feet into his dress brown penny loafers. “So how do I look?” he asked.

“It camouflages your identity as a street urchin rather nicely.”

“Better an urchin than a thug like you, huh?”

A honk that somehow sounded impatient cut off Hutch’s retort.

“Gotta go! See ya at the station, ‘kay?” Starsky grabbed his “brolly,” a trickless replica of the one John Steed carried on _The Avengers_ and a gift from fellow fan Huggy. He now only used it for his intermittent balance issues. He gave Hutch a two-finger salute and sashayed to the door.

Hutch had to shake his head and grin at the way Starsky’s walk demonstrated his high spirits. “Have fun, babe. And be on the lookout.”

“When am I not ?” he said as he opened the door. “I’ll be fine, Mama Hutch. Don’t be such a worry-wart.”

Hutch stared at the closed door for a minute. Then in the next second, he was in the foyer, where he kept his gear. _I refuse to let him go without an armed escort_ , he thought as he tugged on his vest, strapped on his shoulder harness and Magnum. _I’ll tail him; he won’t even know._ He slipped on his safari jacket as he bounded down the stairs to the street. Starsky’s slow-moving taxi was nearing the intersection.

The uniformed officer assigned to them for the morning shift had propped himself nonchalantly against the unmarked black Crown Vic.

“Why aren’t you following Starsky?”

“Hey, don’t blow your top, Hutch. Cap said I could -”

“You think I care what Dobey said? Gimme your damn keys.” When the uniform hesitated, Hutch commanded, “ _Now_.”

“Okay, okay,” the officer grumbled, throwing his hands up in surrender. “In the ignition.”

Hutch jerked the car door open so hard that he feared he might have damaged it--or his hand, which now ached. Fortunately, he didn’t need to adjust the seat and decided the mirrors probably were set adequately enough for the time being. He started the car just as the taxi took a left at the intersection. He peeled away from the curb, grimacing at the squeal of the tires and hoping that hadn’t alerted Starsky to his tail, which he’d be watching for, given the legitimate assumption they were still targets.

A quick glance in the right side mirror revealed the uniform standing with his arms across his chest and a toothy smile on his face. Hutch thought that was weird but quickly re-focused on the job at hand.

**Not only was** traffic heavy enough to make it difficult for even Starsky to spot Hutch’s pursuit, it was just as hard spotting a tail on himself. Nevertheless, Hutch played it perfectly, frequently checking his rear view and keeping far enough from the cab so as not to be spotted but close enough he could swiftly intervene in case of trouble.

It wasn’t long before the cab entered a familiar neighborhood. Hutch drove past the stopped car and pulled over a half-block away. Looking through the rear-view mirror, he recognized the modest home with a small, well-kept yard surrounded by a white picket fence.

His stomach knotted a little when he saw Starsky wobble on exiting the taxi. He suppressed the instinct to rush to his partner. If he had, he was confident Starsky would’ve chewed him out royally, yelling that Hutch had to let him be and if that meant falling, he’d fall. _Get a grip, Hutchinson. He’d be right._

Hutch smiled broadly on seeing Eunice Craig, wearing a black sheath dress with a red scarf at her neck and a big smile, walking down the steps of her home. She greeted Starsky with a kiss on his cheek. He returned the welcome with a kiss on her hand.

He now knew the significance of this date. Significant to both Starsky and his “special lady.” The date that a tragedy changed more than three people’s lives and oddly enough brought two of them together. And he understood what Starsky had meant earlier this morning when he acknowledged the strength Hutch had given him.

Hutch had known Mrs. Craig had visited Starsky several times in the hospital and rehab but in the worry and anxiety of the whole ordeal, Hutch had paid no attention past a dim awareness of her visits. He’d had no idea--had a difficult time even conceiving it--that their contact involved her getting together with the man who’d killed her son on the anniversary of the boy’s death. For this reason alone, she qualified as a special lady.

_Starsk, you never cease to amaze me._

Next thing he knew, Starsky and Mrs. Craig were waving for him to join them. He blushed when he realized he’d been set up.

_You’re gonna pay for this, pal_ , Hutch vowed as he climbed out of the Ford.

Starsky was laughing as Hutch approached. Mrs. Craig just smiled.

Hutch, pointedly ignoring his partner--which promptly put a stop to his laughter--said with sincerity, “As always, a pleasure see you, Mrs. Craig.”

“Oh, Ken, it is so good to see you.” She held out her hand, which Hutch took gently. “And please, won’t you call me Eunice? You know I’ll keep asking until you do.”

Hutch, staggering just a little from Starsky’s unexpected nudge to his shoulder, flushed lightly and said, “Anything for such a _special lady_.” He managed to suppress his laughter at the Dobey-like harrumph coming from deep in Starsky’s throat.

“I hope that anything includes joining David and me for breakfast, Ken. I made enough for four--two servings for him, and one each for you and me.” Eunice winked at Hutch.

“Then let’s eat! I’m starved!” Starsky piped up. “Eunice, may I escort you --”

Hutch interrupted him with, “Oh, no, Starsky, that’s _my_ honor.” Finally looking at his conniving friend, he playfully punched Starsky’s shoulder. “Slow poke,” he muttered before offering Eunice his arm.

“Hey!” groused Starsky. “She’s mine, Hutch. I got her first.”

Eunice’s laugh sounded like a gently ringing crystal bell. “The ladies at church aren’t going to believe I have two handsome young men quarrelling over me.”

“Well, they better believe it,” Hutch said, quickly following up with a subtle snicker aimed at his partner. “Starsky, go on ahead and hold the door open for us. That’s a good boy.”

Starsky shook his longer-than-usual dark curls in sour defeat and started up the walkway, mumbling something Hutch was pretty sure was Yiddish profanity.

**The hearty breakfast** was delicious. For this feast, she had prepared a peppery spinach and mushroom quiche--a special request from Starsky for Hutch--biscuits and red-eye gravy, silver dollar pancakes with real maple syrup from Minnesota, and a fresh fruit salad. Even the coffee from freshly ground beans was spectacular.

The _pièce de résistance_ , Hutch had to admit, was the banana daiquiris. Eunice had given Hutch a sly grin and said, “I start every day with one.”

They enjoyed one more cup of coffee after the meal, during which they chatted about books they’d read, movies they’d seen, the perfect fall weather they’d been having, the latest and upcoming events at Eunice’s church, Starsky’s model ship building as part of his stroke recovery.

“David, is it time yet?” Eunice asked, a sadness evident in her warm alto, as she placed her empty china cup on its saucer.

Hutch knitted his brow enough to know the worry line creased deeply as he dreaded what he suspected would be coming next. He looked to Starsky, who was checking his watch.

“Yeah, the florist should be open by the time we get there. I ordered somethin’ different this year, Eunice. I hope you’re okay with that. And it’s all taken care of.”

Eunice gave Starsky an angelic smile. “What you chose will be just perfect.”

“Uh, unless it’s a secret, where are you going after the florist.” Hutch made the question a statement. He already knew the answer; he was only looking for confirmation.

“We’re gonna visit Lonnie,” Starsky replied. It was said so matter-of-factly that Hutch knew more was coming. “You’re invited to come if ya want, Hutch. Me and Eunice would like you to. If you don’t wanna, that’s okay. I’ll need the keys to the Crown Vic, though.”

So there it all was. Finally he knew it all. Starsky’s “special lady.” The place he had to be. Was it penance, guilt, duty, a salve to his conscience? It didn’t seem like it was any of those. Watching the two of them during breakfast today, recalling how they were together at the hospital and rehab, he believed it was… respect. But mostly, it was love.

_Starsky, didn’t think it was possible, but I love and respect **you** even more._

“I-I’d be honored to come with you.”

Starsky smiled smugly, as if he’d been certain of Hutch’s answer. “Let’s get goin’.”

**Hutch drove, with** Eunice in the front with him, so she could direct him to the flower shop, and Starsky in the back. Before the car reached the first cross street, Starsky was asleep, mouth gaping open and snoring. He and Eunice shared a laugh.

“He looks so tired this morning, Ken. Is he all right?”

Hutch gave Eunice a reassuring smile. “He’s fine. Rough session at PT yesterday and he got up too early this morning. He’ll probably nap this afternoon, too.”

They were quiet for a long moment until Hutch asked, “What’s the, uh, history with you two? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Eunice chuckled. “Oh, I don’t mind now, since we decided it was time to let you in on our little secret.” She paused, looked out the window, sighed, then continued, speaking softly to ensure Starsky couldn’t eavesdrop.

“A few weeks after I buried Lonnie, David came to see me. I don’t know what he was looking for to this day. Absolution from me? A chance to share grief? Comfort? Whatever it was, he needed me, and I found out I needed him. It didn’t take long for me to consider him a son. Oh, he doesn’t replace Lonnie. No one could. I think David knew I was first and foremost a mother, who no longer had anyone to mother, so he offered himself. Not with words but with actions.”

She paused again before smiling with affection at the sleeping man. “He comes to see me on my birthday, he comes by when he has a chance to take me for a walk. He even checks on me after earthquakes, even the little shakers. A few times he’s come with me to Wednesday evening services at my church. Once was when he was so worried about you. You were terribly ill and he was needing… hope that he’d find the man who could help you.” She patted Hutch’s arm. “I’m so glad that worked out. For both of you.”

Hutch found himself at a loss for words, which was for the best since his throat had tightened on hearing about this aspect of his best friend. It didn’t surprise him that Starsky, who remained wounded emotionally by his own mother having sent him away, would be drawn to strongly maternal older women, to heal that insecurity and fear that he was somehow unworthy of a mother’s love. That’s what he needed. But the mother of the boy he’d killed? _Dear Lord, Starsk, you are the bravest and craziest person I know._

Hutch finally found his voice as he pulled into the small lot for the shop. “Why didn’t he tell me any of this, Eunice?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know, Ken. You’ll have to ask him. But I will tell you this. David saved me from overwhelming grief. It’s just not right for a child to die before his mama or daddy. Even though I hoped and prayed Lonnie would get back on the right path, I was preparing myself for the worst. And the worst happened. But the good Lord sent me hope in the form of David. Oh, I still love Lonnie and miss him every day. David helps ease that pain so I can go on.”

Hutch had no idea how to respond, or even if he should. _And here I thought only Starsky could see that a huge dark cloud was mostly a silver lining._

**Starsky slept through** the stop at the florist. Hutch had to wake him after parking near Lonnie’s gravesite.

“Geez, those flowers smell good,” he said after clearing the sleep-cotton from his throat. “You like ‘em, Eunice?”

“Oh, David, they are splendid! I never would have thought to combine violets, white carnations, and marigolds.”

Hutch, and probably anyone else on this planet, wouldn’t have either, but Starsky being Starsky, would have his reasons for such a peculiar arrangement. Somehow, the florist had made it work.

Starsky’s jaw cracked loudly with a wide, long yawn. “Uh, sorry.” He yawned again. “I did some reading on flower meanings when I was still a little doped up. Can’t remember which means what. Somethin’ about celebratin’ the deceased, peace in the afterlife, strong mama.” He paused, scrubbed his face. “I think. Anyways, that’s what I want ‘em to mean.”

“David, that is so… beautiful.” Hutch could hear the unshed tears in her voice and feel his own in his throat.

“So we’re here already?”

Hutch swallowed before he teased, “Yeah, Rip Van Winkle.”

Starsky pulled a face at his partner, then checked his watch. “Better get goin’.”

“In that case…” Hutch slid out of the car and quickly was on the passenger side to open the door for Eunice. “Milady.” He offered her his hand, which she took.

She tittered shyly, yet seemingly entranced by the formality. “Oh, the ladies at church will definitely be envious of me!” She exited the Crown Vic gracefully, then readjusted the black pillbox hat on her head.

It didn’t take long for Hutch, who suddenly felt like a third wheel, to realize he was watching a ritual between Starsky and Eunice that didn’t require words. Starsky was out of the car, Eunice was handing him the small box from the florist, then Starsky was slipping a corsage of six red rosebuds on her gloved left wrist.

Eunice, tears forming in her eyes, kissed Starsky’s cheek for the second time that morning. Starsky gave her a wide, lopsided grin.

Starsky’s voice broke into his concentration. “Hutch, the bunch of flowers?”

Hutch nodded and quickly retrieved the unusual bouquet, breathed deeply of its heavy scent, and suddenly felt a part of this love-affirming ritual.

He had to wait a few moments before Eunice, who was dabbing her eyes with a lacy monogrammed handkerchief, accepted the flowers. “They’re perfect, my dear David.”

Starsky smiled again, this time a gentle one. He put his left arm around her waist and she in turn put her right one around his waist.

“Here we go,” Starsky said quietly but full of emotion.

Hutch had been waffling about whether to go to Lonnie’s grave with them, but now his decision was made. “I really do appreciate and am honored that you want me to be here with you. But if it’s okay with you two, I think I’ll stay here.”

When Eunice opened her mouth to respond, Hutch held up his hand and smiled. “I know I wouldn’t be intruding, but this is your and Starsky’s, uh, David’s moment. I’ll pay my respects from here.”

Both Starsky and Eunice looked disappointed. “Okay, buddy. See ya soon.”

Hutch, leaning against the car, watched them walk slowly to the grave, then stand there, holding on to each other as if each were a life preserver.

**About ten minutes** later, several cars pulled in behind the Crown Vic. Hutch watched as about a dozen people, some of whom he remembered from the inquest, exited the vehicles. One of them approached Hutch. The rest made their way to Starsky and Eunice.

Hutch stood away from the car. “Mr. Tidings,” he said in greeting as he held out his hand. The only sign that the man had aged was a few gray hairs.

Tidings took the proffered hand and pumped it several times. “Well, Detective, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said amiably.

Hutch let a small laugh tumble out of his mouth. “I didn’t either until earlier today. How are you, sir?”

“Considering the day, as well as can be expected. You know, I would never say this to David, but I really do appreciate everything he’s done for Eunice. Without him, I don’t think she’d be doing this... good.” He paused. “And I suspect _you’ve_ helped _him_.”

Starsky’s words from this morning came roaring back: _You were there for me, babe. Gave me the strength I needed to get through a really tough time a few years back._ He felt a wave of privilege wash over him. To have been there and given what his best friend needed to cope with all the arduous times he’d experienced reminded him that Starsky had been there for him, supporting and strengthening him when needed.

“Yes, sir, I believe you’re right.”

Tidings nodded. “Thanks for coming today. See you next year?”

“Count on it.”

Tidings strode with purpose toward the small crowd gathered at Lonnie’s grave. Moments after that, Starsky, leaning heavily on his cane, pulled away from the group. He and Tidings shook hands and spoke briefly.

Starsky resumed his way back to Hutch, who winced when he saw that Starsky had his left arm away from his body for more balance. _Ground must be uneven. Let him handle it on his own, Hutch._ He propped himself against the car.

Starsky exhaled forcefully on arriving before he stood shoulder to shoulder with Hutch. “I know what you’re gonna say, so just let me talk first, okay?”

Hutch sucked his lower lip into his mouth, anchoring it there with his teeth. He nodded.

“I know I broke the rule we learned at the academy that we shouldn’t get involved with victims’ or perps’ families,” Starsky began. “Especially perps’ families. But I couldn’t help it. Don’t know why and I stopped tryin’ to figure it out a couple years ago.”

Starsky fell silent for a long stretch, watching the people around the grave, who were now praying. Hutch stayed quiet as well. He knew Starsky was searching for the words that probably wouldn’t come easily, that would make Hutch understand why he’d broken that rule.

“It just feels right, ya know, buddy, me and Eunice being... friends. She’s really a special person, a real strong lady with a big heart.”

Hutch smiled at the earnestness in Starsky’s tone. “Kinda reminds me of someone I know.”

One side of Starsky’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah, kinda reminds me of you, too. Jus’ not the lady part.”

the end

July 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Suzan for the beta/edit.
> 
> The meanings of the flowers (according to the sources I found):  
>  _Marigolds_ : remembering and celebrating the deceased  
>  _White carnations_ : a mother’s strength and caring  
>  _Violets_ : peace in the afterlife  
>  _Half dozen red roses_ : traditional gift to mother/grandmother/spouse who has lost a child/grandchild/spouse


End file.
